


Vienna

by radtoro



Category: Video Blogging RPF, Youtube RPF
Genre: ? - Freeform, AU, Adventurer!Mark, Alternate Universe - High School, Based in Ireland, Blunt Discussion of Recreational Drug Use, Cliche, Discussions of sexuality, Drummer!Jack, In the first chapter, Jack's POV, M/M, Pining, Slow Build, mild violence, romcom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-23
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:51:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7946920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radtoro/pseuds/radtoro
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack dreams of what life is beyond the confines of the small town he was born and raised in. When Mark McHot American (or whatever his name is) shows up at his window with his dog and trademark grin in tow, Jack's taken for a ride his thrill-seeking heart could've only dreamed of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. { [ chapter one: static ] }

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: I don't claim any of this actually happened or will. I just ran with the idea of them as teenagers in Ireland!! These guys are pretty much my own characters in my own plot, with minor details from their real lives.
> 
> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it!!

As it is, the days are dull. I go to school, I come back home. The sky is cloudy, the grass is half dead, the house is silent except for the television on at all times. It's itchy and prickly at the sides.

When I get home, I do my homework, then play my drums. It's this small electronic set, in the corner of my room. The sounds come from the headphones I attach. I'm barely good enough to call myself a drummer, scarcely enough to be in a band (which I'm not, even though my school counsellor nags me endlessly on the subject). It provides barely enough of the adrenaline I crave, but it's something. Everything.

Sometimes I head to town. See what there is to see, which isn't much. I drink coffee at the shop, browse the same books at the store, mind my own business at the arcade.

I have friends, of course, but they're as sleepy as the town they came from. They can't fathom the idea that there's more out there. I know there is. The world is bigger than I could ever understand or see (but, God, do I want to try).

In the end, I end up back at the house. Home, silent home. I don't miss it when I leave.

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

The drive to school is okay. I take myself, by myself, in my dad's old car. The only thing my parents let me drive. The paint is dull, the engine is weary, and the interior is trashed thanks to yours truly. I listen to my CDs and headbang at stop signs. In that old dust wagon, the previous owner being my uptight father, it's funny to me to listen to metal.

I pull up, park, grab my bag and get out. I head to the front doors, and that's when I spot _him_.

The fucking American.

He's practically friends with everyone. Adored by teachers, admired by students. I'm ninety per cent sure he's a vampire. Or some kind of mischievous prince.

Mark Fucking American, or whatever his name is.

What a hot piece of ass. I hate him. I love him.

Sighing, I walk past him hanging out and chatting with his friends. I head in, not looking up, even though I can feel a couple watch me walk by, like their eyes are breathing down my neck.

Before any classes, I head to the guidance counsellor's office. Tuesday mornings and Friday free periods. I'm her biggest project at the moment (or at least I try to be).

Her name is almost funny, and her attire is business casual at best, always wearing these big, clunky boots. Graduated from some big school in London, top of her class. She's told me she wants to help kids. I told her kids didn't need help from guidance counsellors, guidance counsellors needed kids' parents' money. She should just let us run wild, learn for ourselves. She laughed and shook her head and let me know exactly how stupid I was. I decided I liked her then.

She smiles gently at me when I walk in. I look over the small desk. There's a mug of tea sitting next to a cup of pens at the side of her gigantic desk calendar. At the front of her desk is the plaque reading her name: Ms. North Willoughby. When I first started seeing her, I would joke to myself about the name. _It sounds like a fucking street_ , I would laugh. Once, when I stupidly made a comment about it, she laughed with me.

I nod at her, glancing at the fake plant in the corner before taking a seat in one of the plastic chairs. It creaks under my weight.

"Good morning, Seán," she says, using my birth name for show. For professionalism (for anyone listening). She laces her fingers on her desk. "Any issues you'd like to discuss today?"

I shake my head. "Nah."

"Any points of interest?" she asks, trying to hold onto her patient smile. "Highlights of your weekend?"

I shrug, sitting back in my chair. "I had a pretty great shit this morning."

She laughs, shaking her head. "Can you take this seriously for once?"

"Why should I?" I ask. "Nothing ever happens. Shitting is the only thing I have to look forward to."

She sighs. "Please, for once, in all seriousness," she leans forward to drive in her point, "tell me about your weekend."

I shrug, sighing. "It was normal. I played drums, watched a Mark Ruffalo film. Had a few shits." She gives me a look, to which I respond with, "It's true! That's all my weekend was. I did my leftover math homework, slept, and ate. My life is boring as shit. Literally."

She sighs. "Then how about your morning? Besides the shit. Or anything on Monday?" Then she adds, " _Besides shit_."

I sigh. "Nothing. Honestly, the highlight of my weeks are having these sessions and taking shits."

"I'm flattered," she says. She shakes her head and lets herself laugh. "You should take up writing. Have I told you that yet?"

I roll my eyes. "Not yet today." I silently hope she doesn't start on a tangent about possible careers for me. Like she does every other session. "I'm surprised you don't open with it by now."

Sighing, she says, "Jack, this is your senior year. You have to start thinking about your future."

"I have," I say, the same replies to her arguments worn on my tongue.

"And not just traveling," she says. "Think of a job, maybe one that allows you that, something to _follow_ traveling."

I hold my arguments back. _Maybe I'll find something when I'm out there, when I'm free_.

"You know," she starts, and I already know what she's going to say, "the school's band program travels--"

I groan, rolling my head back. "I know, I know. Only if they go to nationals, North, and the band is shit."

"Maybe that's something you can change." She brushes a strand of her dark hair behind her ear. "I mean, you like shit, don't you?"

I barely laugh. "Like a fucking snare can change a band of off key idiots." I sigh, deciding I don't want to get into an argument. "Look, it's just not for me. Sorry."

"Don't be," she says. "But, you know, there are other musicians in the school." I sigh internally because I knew this would be her next argument. "Maybe you could try a small band. If you get big enough, you know, get the school behind you, you might be able to tour. Just locally, but it's something."

I keep my gaze away, tired of this argument. A band sounds great, but in this town? In this school? There’s no way I could get a band I would actually want to be a part of together.

I tell her I'll think about it, like I don't already constantly wish that I had a band. That I had something to tell her when I come in.

And the rest goes as usual. She nods at me as if she's done something right, then we continue. I'm sent off eventually, and when I stand to go, she hugs me.

After I leave, I visit my locker, located at a dead end, in the darkest corner of the school. I then go to class, greeting some pals on my way through the halls. I attend my first two periods, then my third, a class I share with Mark. Fourth is lunch. I sit outside and eat my packed lunch with some acquaintances. I finish fast, so in a lull in conversation, I go and throw away the trash.

I take my time on my way back. While the people I eat lunch with I consider 'friends', I like my own company better. As I walk past the windows of the cafeteria, I look up at the sky. Clouds are all there is up there. They're a light grey colour that only shows up over the school. It's smooth in the middle and bumpy as it dissipates.

Looking back at the grass, I sigh. Sometimes I forget the exact shade of blue the sky is supposed to be.

My gaze traces the length of the trees and I spot my friends in the distance. Following the prickly feeling of being watched, I glance back to the cafeteria building. As I set my sights on the door, I spot him, standing coolly against the wall.

 _Mark_.

We make eye contact and he keeps me locked there. My pace stumbles under his gaze.

He smiles at me with half his mouth, without any teeth, waving coolly.

I wave back awkwardly. He asks how I am today, and I say that I'm alright, then return the pleasantry. He smiles, preparing a reply. I wonder if that means 'come hither' or not, if he's going to call me over. But then he breaks the contact to greet a friend who has caught up to him.

I look away a second later, blushing furiously. Damn him. Damn him to hell, all of him. His hair and hands, his warm brown eyes and his scrumptious-looking mouth, his stupid fucking cute as hell ass. Fuck all of him (see also: I wish I could).

I kick the grass and stumble back to the group. I blush harder when I look back and he doesn't return the glance.

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

On my way to my last class, I get held up at my locker. Usually, I toss what I'm finished with in and pull what I need out, which is what I proceed to do, except when I try to tug my last notebook out, the rest topple to the floor. I groan and begin to pick everything up, stuffing it back into the locker. Textbooks then notebooks then jumpers and half-eaten candy bars. I groan again as the bell rings and more papers float to my feet.

As I'm shuffling everything around and trying to keep everything in, I hear shouts from down the hallway. I glance around. The halls are empty, I find. I shrug and turn back to my locker.

Then I hear grunts and a smaller voice. A much, much smaller voice. The voices get louder, angrier; smaller, more pleading.

I shut my locker, leaving my backpack by it. I rush towards the noise.

I get to a corner in the hallway and glance around. Bullies catch my eye. Two big guys cornering a poor, innocent freshman. Most would walk away but...

I need the adrenaline.

I stomp over just before the bullies can do any damage.

"The fuck you think you're doing?" I say, standing between them.

They're bubbling over with testosterone, and now, more fury.

“Gettin’ what we want from this stupid fuck,” one of them says, balling up his fist. "The fuck you think _yer_ doin'?"

"Keepin' your filthy fists off'a this poor kid." I stand in front of him protectively. "Just go mind your own fuckin' business for once, would’ya?"

The one on the right steps forward, tries be threatening. Almost succeeds. "D'y'fuckin' know who you're talkin' to?" he growls.

"D'you fuckin' think I give a shit?" I turn to escort the kid away, hoping that they'll back off. But one of them (the one on the right, I'm guessing) grabs my shoulder and turns me back around.

"Did I say this was over?" he says. He pulls his fist back, but he's slow. I dodge, then dodge again.

I stare him down, confident. "No, I'm saying it. Now fuck off."

The other joins in to try and get a hit. I dodge for a few seconds before I get a good punch in the stomach. It knocks the wind out of me, just the window of vulnerability they needed, and then I'm tasting tile. They each kick me now that I'm down.

They get maybe one victory guffaw before I take out left's knee and right takes a good hit to the groin. I elbow his head on the way down. Left stirs and I bring him back down with a punch to the eye.

I stand and brush off my jeans. After a glance around, I find an empty hallway, the kid gone. I huff. "Smart kid,” I say, then take that opportunity to bolt. Rushing past my locker, I grab my bag and head for the exit. Any exit. I'll just skip my last class, I decide, avoid any further trouble. I definitely do not want to be around when the jocks come to and word spreads.

Before I can make it to a door, I hear calls through the hallway. Probably not for me, considering there are still a few students scattered, but I pick up the pace anyway. I just need to get outside.

There are footsteps approaching and they speak again. Smooth voice. Probably male, considering how deep it is. He touches my arm, and that's when I pick up the accent.

 _Him_.

I swear under my breath and spin around.

Mark stands in front of me, grinning. You should see him do that. His mouth literally goes _grriin!_

"Hey," he says. Blinking, happy, grinning. His breathing's a little heavy, like he's chased me down. "Seán!"

"Uh," I say. I close my mouth and nod, swallowing. "Uh-huh, hi, Mark."

He picks up on my confused stare and continues. "That was a really nice thing you did back there. Sticking up for that kid and all."

I smile and nod, bashful. "Yeah, well, y'know." I rub the back of my neck.

Grinning wider, he says, "And you _totally_ kicked their asses."

I laugh at that. "Yeah, I, um... yeah. They deserved it."

" _Fuck_ yeah, they did." He's smiling at me all the same, like I'm something to smile at. Or maybe he's just happy he got to see me kick ass.

The hallway is completely empty now. Only us and our echoing laughter. Mark doesn't notice or even seem to care, like the world will stop for him (although it kind of does).

"Hey, um," I say, regretting the words as they come out. "I've actually gotta go. Y'know, before they catch up to me.” I nod behind me and take half a step back. “And I'm sure you've got better places to be."

"Nah, not really," he says. "But you go." He waves me away. "Even though they're probably too butthurt to follow."

I look down and shrug, unsure of whether he's encouraging me to stay with him or trying to make me feel dumb.

"I'd rather be on the safe side of that 'probably'," I say, feeling the adrenaline dissipate to reveal the ache in my side.

"Alright." He begins to walk away, then pats my back through my backpack. "See ya around, then. Later, Seán." He waves as he walks away.

I mumble something with his name, then wave goodbye. I watch his ass. I can't help it.

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

School ends, the day ends, another begins. I'm feeling anxious due to the chat I had with Mark the day before. I try to shrug it off (but I could've sworn he watched me drive out of the school parking lot).

In the morning before I shower, I drum. I know I'll probably regret it because nine times out of ten it tires me out for the whole day. But I need to rid of the extra energy, send a prayer to the drum lords to not let senpai notice me anymore. It's nerve wracking as shit.

Metal all the way to school, the fast, thrasher stuff. Full blast. When I pull up and get out, I'm ninety per cent sure Mark is watching me. I pass him and the crew again when I'm heading in. I make the mistake of glancing at him.

Eye contact makes everything molasses. A cocky kind of sly smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. I'm not sure if that's for me or at something his friends have said, but the nod is definitely for me. I withhold a goofy smile and wave bashfully in return.

When I'm back to normal speed, my heart picks up. I smile when I'm in the hallways. Since when does he smile at me? Part of me doesn't care, happy to be noticed, continuing to smile. The other part laughs at the hopeful/less half, then cackles when he runs into a student. I apologise and run off, embarrassed that I had gone too far into my own little world again.

In my scramble down the hall, I see Ms. Willoughby. Standing outside her office door, tapping her foot. She jumps as soon as she sees me.

"Mr. McLoughlin!" she calls, stern, staring. "A word."

I step warily over, taking slow steps. I run through what I've done that could give her this look.

She snaps her fingers at me. "Pick up the pace, McLoughlin!"

I make my steps bigger, but don't make a big attempt to get to her faster. All I can recall from the previous day is Mark. Mark... Something. Do I know his last name? I thought I did. I know the first initial: F. Mark F(ucking gorgeous).

I curse myself for getting distracted. I stop in front of Ms. Willoughby, and her eyes bore into mine when I finally look up.

She motions for me to go into her office. Her clown car office. I go in, and she closes the door behind her when she enters.

"Seán..." She shakes her head, hand on her desk. She's already on the other side, already put her barrier up. "Sit," she commands.

And so I do.

She straightens out her blouse and gives me a pointed stare. "Do you know why you're in here?"

I make eye contact with my shoelaces, and then it hits me.

 _That stupid fucking fight_.

"...Yes," I say. "But please, let me explain."

Folding her arms, she thinks it over. Her glare doesn't soften for a second. "Only because I trust your intentions. Go."

I exhale. "These two bullies were picking on this kid and I had to help. I swear, any damage I did was self-defense." I hold up my right hand. "I promise you, I only wanted to help the kid. And you know those jocks are just dickheads."

"Seán," she replies instantly, tone stiff, "watch your fucking language." Then she smiles. And I'm filled with relief. "I knew it."

I sigh, but she cuts me off.

"You're not off the hook just yet," she says. "You took out the best athlete in the school's knee. And then you ran." She leans on her desk again. "They know it was you. And the school knows I'll take your side; you'll need more than just me to get you out of this." She stand up straight. "But, off the record..." She holds her hand up for a high-five, and I deliver. "You did good, Jack."

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

Once I'm out of there, I'm almost happy to be in actual classes. Almost.

The first two periods are okay. I take notes because I'm too distracted to pay attention (I'm sure the notes are shit). In third period, the one I share with Mark, there's a pop quiz (which I ace, but who's counting?). Then I have lunch at the same place with the same people. I spot Mark in the distance a couple times. Once mid-distance.

Then I finish the rest of my classes, and I say goodbye to North on my way out. She tells me I have an appointment with the student council in the morning, but reassures me that I'll be fine. Sometimes she's more of a friend than anyone else is.

I trot down the front stairs, content with the day, even though Mark was being a creeper today. I shake my head, continuing from the end of the stairs to the parking lot. I still don't understand what this new attention means, or if it even does, much less decide how I feel about it. Maybe he's just a creeper and I haven't noticed until now.

Sighing, I unlock my car and get in. I turn the key in the ignition and brace myself for the metal I left blaring. I toss my backpack into the backseat decide to stop by the coffee shop before heading home.

When I enter, the bell overhead rings obnoxiously. The people behind the counters recognise me by now, and they greet me happily.

While I order, I glance around the cashier into the kitchen, even though I know the face I'm looking for won't be there.

I drink up my tea then announce my leave. I drive home feeling as empty and static as I left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!! I already have this all written out, so I'll update regularly.
> 
> Feedback is always appreciated! Thanks again!


	2. { [ chapter two: monotony or whatever ] }

When I'm back at the house, I do chores and eat, then put off homework. Drums first tonight, I decide, because I need to get out some frustrations(Mark) and stress(also Mark).

I check the bruise forming on my side when it starts aching from playing too hard. It'll be a bitch but I'll survive. I quit drums for the night and start my homework, even though it's late.

Working, working, until it's finished. Usually, it doesn't take me long to be through with it, but dopamine plus melatonin does not equal good at homework.

When I’m finally done, I sit back in my chair and sigh. Then I check the clock. 11:42. Time to go to bed, I realise. I put everything away, then turn out the lights. Standing in the centre of my room, I exhale the stress from my lungs. I glance at my window, pale blue light pouring in. The moon must be bright tonight.

I pull off my shirt and pants, then slide into bed. I close my eyes, trying to shut down. I turn on my side then open my eyes, unable to help myself. The empty ceiling and same boring wall are apparently in need of a staring contest. I win.

A while passes, my mind restless. I think about maybe playing some more drums, then decide against it, as I don't want to wake anyone. I wonder if anyone would actually wake if I did. It's questionable whether I care at this point. I think about the corners of my room and Mark and my very much in need of changing bedsheets. I think of Mark wrapped in them. I tuck that thought away for later.

The creepy thoughts creep in, all horror movies and creepypastas that weren’t scary when I first happened upon them, then the slideshow of future/responsibility weighs me down. Both are equally terrifying.

I toss and turn and look at my window, wanting to open it, wanting to let some of the world in. I imagine branches from the trees outside crawling in and engulfing the sill. I picture myself jumping out, past the limbs and through the leaves. I run towards adventure, towards the ocean and across it.

I sigh and lay on my back, force my eyes closed. _My imagination is too big for my head_ , I think. I smile slightly as I envision that: pictures and paints and plants melting and oozing out of my skull, onto my pillowcase and down to the floor. Then it’s not just in my head now, I _am_ my imagination. The pictures are my skin and the plants are my hair. My organs are masterpieces, unfathomable works inside my weak vessel. Paint replaces my blood, and it drips from the creases and flaws in my photograph skin onto the carpet. The roots of the trees that engulf my window drink it up.

A long, somber gaze at the window confirms reality hasn't changed. I sigh at it and at my plain, lanky body.

Just as I look away, there's a tap at the window. I try not to let all the creepy thoughts get to me.

With a glance to the source of the sound, I pull my covers higher. I console myself with the logic (and hope) of it being the tree outside.

But it happens again, urgent this time. Purposeful.

I cock my head at the blinds and the shadows casting over it. It happens again, a quick rapping against the glass.

I stand slowly and edge over to the window, then peek through the blinds. I jump back.

 _Him_.

Mark McFucking Hot American.

I try to keep my heart in my chest, my mouth hanging open in shock. I throw on some jeans, draw the shades, then unlock and open the window. I express my exact thoughts to him:

"What the fuck?!"

Mark laughs coolly at this, as if he knew what my reaction would be. "Hey."

I shake my head and scrunch up my face. "Literally, what the fuck." I put my hand on my hip. "What're you doing here?"

"Well..." He takes his time talking, looking around my dark room, keeping a smolder like he knows I'm checking him out. "You seem the adventuring type, and I need a partner in crime. And, I, uh... need a ride." He grins from the side of his mouth. "You in?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "Don't you have other people you can go and party with?" I ask.

He shrugs, and it's this big ordeal, it's a full sentence with punctuation and grammar. The big leather bomber jacket he's wearing settles back on his shoulders. "I'm not the partying type and they're not the adventuring type." He looks at me through strands of hair in his face, like he's fucking Aladdin asking me on a magic carpet ride (except I'm driving). "You in or not?"

I don't mean to answer immediately. "Oh, fuck yes."

He grins and I smile back. "You, uh," he says, "might wanna put on a shirt or somethin',” he gestures to my chest “'cause it's kinda cold out."

I look down at my bare chest and swear, trying not to blush. "Right, yeh, of course." After throwing on a random hoodie and slipping on shoes, I grab my keys and wallet and jump out the window.

"Oh, and by the way," Marks says, "do you mind dogs?"

I look down to see a long-haired white retriever puppy, almost into adulthood. I curse to the wind.

"She's really nice and really chill," he says, patting her head. "She's just a night owl, just like her dad." He looks up to see my disapproving glare and straightens his posture, losing his cooing smile. "This is Chica. Chica, say 'hi'."

The puppy gently places her still-to-be-grown-into paw on my leg. She's in the sitting position, looking up at me with the same hope and mischief as Mark.

I sigh, giving in. "Fine,” I say, petting her head. “But if she so much as _farts_ in my car..."

"No, no, she's totally house trained." He pats her on the head and Chica pants, smiling.

I start walking. "But is she car trained?"

"Euuhhyeah." Mark tugs his dog along with him. "She should be."

"'Should be'." I scoff and shake my head. "Just fucking come on." I stop when we reach the car. "Where're we headed?"

"Places." He begins to grin.

I shake my head, placing my hand on my hip. "And what exactly are we doing when we get there?"

He grins a full, big, bright grin. "Things."

I laugh. "We're going places to do things," I say. "How specific."

He laughs. "Yep."

I shake my head, chuckling. "You're a real dick, y'know that?"

"Yeah, whatever," he says, rounding the car. "You know you love me."

I only sigh, shaking my head as I get in the car, because it's true. Unreturned, horrible, aching truth.

We sit in silence. He looks at me, and I'm pretending I don't see. Then, I try as quietly as I can to start the engine (see also: there is no way to quietly start an engine). I pull out of the drive and start down the road.

Chica licks my ear. I crack the windows.

"Take a right here," he tells me.

I do as he says. "But really," I start, glancing at him. "Where are we going? I mean, you can keep surprises and shit if you're really that committed, but I just wanna know if I'm gonna be driving a getaway car or if you just need to go to the supermarket."

Mark laughs. "Kind of both, actually. But not getaway car as in robbing banks and shit, getaway car as in... We're getting _away_." He gestures in a sweeping motion towards the road. "Y'know. From, like, the monotony or whatever."

I nod. "Ah. Okay.” I spare a glance at him. “But what about the supermarket?"

"Well, like," he shifts around, awkwardly yet adorably, "we might get, like, thirsty or somethin'."

I laugh. "You're fuckin' crazy."

He lets out a breath as he speaks, long and teasing. "Yyeeaahh." He stretches as best he can in the seat, his shirt riding up slightly. "But you're drivin' me there." He gazes at me over his thin-rimmed glasses.

My heart starts thumping in my chest. I deny the idea that he's flirting with me; he flirts with anything that walks past. No, it’s surely that I'm realising that _I'm Mark's fucking chauffeur_. He’s sitting right next to me, sexy as ever. Mark Fucking American is sigh-moaning in my car.

I shake my head and focus back on the road. Words start slipping out of my mouth before I can stop myself, beginnings of sentences that I don't plan to finish.

He looks at me expectantly (Disney prince eyes). "Yeah?"

"...Um..." I glance around the dashboard awkwardly.

He rests his hands behind his head. "Look, if you got a question, just ask." He smiles at me a little. "I'm an open book. Take a left here."

I turn the steering wheel with a glance at him. "I'm drawing a blank," I say, painfully honest. He’s sucked up all my air and consumed all my thoughts, corrupted my speech. He’s an amazingly charming computer virus.

His gaze remains on me, his patient expression turning to amusement. He takes a breath to speak before something breaks through the scramble of my thoughts.

"Hold on." I turn to him. "How the fuck did you get my address?"

"There it is." Mark chuckles nervously, then pulls out a tag from his pocket. "The 'return if lost' tag from your backpack?" He rubs the back of his neck and holds the tag out.

I snatch it from him. "Fuckin' hell." I glance over it before dropping it onto the console. I shake my head at the road, then squint. "And how the fuck did you get to my house?"

"Bike," he answers. "Chica rode in a side-car I made."

I giggle at the thought of the sight. "That's adorable." We turn by his instruction.

He laughs. "Yeah. She's the cutest thing."

On cue, Chica pokes her head between us and licks his cheek and neck. He laughs and pets her.

When she retreats, the car falls silent. I hear the faintest of symbols from the CD I left in the car.

Mark notices the sound and goes to turn the volume up. "Ooh, whatcha got in?"

I try to stop him, but he cranks it up as the song hits its heaviest part.

"Whooaa," he says.

"Yeah, sorry," I say, reaching to turn it off.

"No, no," he says, pushing my hand away. "I just... I didn't..." He blinks at the reader displaying ' **TRACK 9** '. "Metal. I didn't-I didn't know you liked _metal_."

I laugh nervously. "Yeah. You can turn it off if you want."

"No, no!" He nods his head to the heavy, quick kick drum. Closing his eyes, he whispers, " _Metal_."

I smile, wide and relieved, but also amused. I nod with him.

The song comes to a distorted, screaming end soon and he decreases the volume. "You hungry?" he asks me.

"Why?" I ask. "You wanna go for that supermarket run?"

He laughs. "Nah, that's later." He pushes his glasses up on his nose, and that's the first time I notice he's wearing them. "The reason I ask is because I wanted to know if you knew this pizza place downtown. Open late, fantastic food."

"Um, I don't know of any pizza places," I say, small. "Honestly, I don't go downtown that often. I wish I did."

"Well, it's not _downtown_ downtown, just closer to downtown than, well, town." He watches me for reaction. "Wanna go?"

"Um, sure." I smile at him nervously.

He grins. "Great! Take a right here and then another right at the light." I take his directions, then he leans closer to speak. "I think you're gonna love this place."

I smile at him, increasingly nervous. I continue driving.

"Here it is!" he says. He points to the pizza place, something with a quirky name and bright sign.

I pull into the ghost town of a parking lot. "This place looks like a stoner magnet," I say. I park and cut off the engine.

He laughs. "Yup." He unbuckles his seatbelt. "It's awesome."

We get out, Mark hooking Chica back onto her leash. Then, we head into the place. It's pretty spacious, with only two other customers inside. The decorations are hilarious and bright, the silver mannequins hanging from the ceiling reminiscent of _Rocky Horror Picture Show_.

"I love this place already," I say, still looking around.

"I knew you would," he says with a smile.

We seat ourselves at a booth and he glances over a menu before putting it back. He stands and passes me Chica's leash.

"What, I don't get to order for myself?" I scoff.

"Nope." He smiles. "I know what's best here and besides..." He leans down and lowers his voice. "I'm paying." He saunters over to the counter.

I glare down at Chica. "Your dad's a fuckin' bastard." I watch him as he orders, tilting my head. "Great ass, though."

She gives me sad eyes and paws at my leg. I pet her, chuckling.

Mark returns to the table with three glasses, one empty and two full, placing one down for Chica as he sits. She laps up the water graciously.

"Do they not care that she's here?" I ask him.

"Nah," he says. "They don't really care at this hour. But if anyone asks, she's a service dog." He smiles at her and her ears flop, tail wagging. He turns and gestures. "The soda machine is over there." He slides the empty cup towards me.

I take it and stand, then pass him the leash. As I fill the cup with ice, I wonder what I'm doing. I'm driving a guy I barely know around, and all for what? Because he's mysterious and handsome? Because he has a nice ass? I must be mad.

I glance back at him baby talking his puppy. All I can focus on is the feeling that wads up in my stomach. A pull to him.

He feels like my ticket out. A one-way trip to what life actually _is_. The type of life that's meant to be lived, the type of life I've only dreamed and read about. The type of life he probably leads now.

The soda spilling over the rim of the cup grabs my attention. I swear and pull away.

When I get back to the table, he nods at me. Like I'm his cabby. Like he knows me the exact amount he actually does.

I sit, nervous again. Watching the slowly forming condensation on his cup, I wonder about Mark. All different types of ‘ _why_ ’s cross my mind, half-formed and dumb or too far-fetched to voice. Thinking about Mark is just one big question mark (no pun intended) in my head. A crammed, yet blank space in my already mess of a mind.

His fizzy drink is a third gone and there are smudges on the side of the cup, absences of condensation from where his fingertips have been. I blink as the cup is removed from my line of sight and brought to its owners lips. It takes some will power to not let my eyes wander to its destination. He places it back down, leaning back in his seat.

I look down at my hands in my lap. It feels like he should talk, but I feel responsible for the prompt. I squirm in my seat, eyeing my cup. I look up at Mark, only to find his gaze already set on me. It feels like he's pinned me there, like he's about to interrogate me or tell me a war story.

But then he grins.

He lets that sit there for a moment, the smile an offering. Like that's a whole story in and within itself.

He shakes his head, finally breaking our gaze when he closes his eyes. He whispers, "Fuckin' _metal_."

I laugh, then nudge his foot under the table. "Oh, shut up."

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

When we exit the restaurant, we're full and laughing. As we approach the parking lot, the cool midnight air slowly takes our laughter’s place.

He throws his arm over my shoulder. I jump at the touch, but ease into it. I imagine he's glued to me, that he won't ever let me go, that I'll feel the leather of his jacket against my neck forever.

"So," he says, "where is your absolute favorite place to be?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "What do you mean?" I glance up at him.

"Like, your happy place," he says. "The place that you'd run away to. Where you _really_ think of when you think 'home'."

I'm quiet as I get my keys from my pocket. I think of downtown. Dublin, London, Paris. America. I think of my bed. I think of my Ma. Music crosses my mind, and then my drums, and then my car. Ms. Willoughby's office hits me hard in the chest.

"God," I sigh, "I dunno." I look at him, where he's stepped away from me. He's close, intent. I could kiss him if I wanted to (it almost feels like he's going to).

"That's okay." A soft smile is on his face. "You don't have to tell me."

"No, it's not that, it's just..." I feel this wave of shame, finally looking away from Mark. "...I haven't found it yet."

"Hey, don't sound so sad," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder. It feels like he's about to start singing. "That's perfectly okay." He drops his hand, and I watch it fall. "I was just curious." He rounds the car, shrugging as he opens the back passenger door. "I was just... If you had one, I was gonna have you drive me there. Y'know, adventure, romantic, deep-guy style."

I laugh. "Oh, I see how it is." I open my door. "It's allll about you."

He shrugs, keeping his shoulders high as he speaks. "Only when it's allll about you, too." He grins and leads Chica into the backseat before sliding into the passenger seat.

I shake my head, blush sustaining its place on my ears. It should start paying rent.

I duck into the car and buckle up. I put the key in the ignition, then look over at Mark.

"We're goin' where again?" I ask.

He glances around, tugging the corners of his mouth down. "You know how to get downtown?"

"Eehhh..." I tilt my head back and forth. "Kinda. I'm assumin' you do, though?" I start the car and put it into gear.

He shrugs and nods. "I can get you where I'm thinking of."

As I'm pulling out of the parking place, I ask, "Is it your happy place?"

"No..." He smiles, then directs it at me. "Just maybe somewhere that could be yours."


	3. { [ chapter three: cliché ] }

"I know they say not to talk about religion on the first date," Mark starts with a grin, "but do you have one?"

I raise an eyebrow at him. "Is that what this is? A date?"

He laughs. "You're avoiding the question. Do you believe in God?"

"Mm. No," I answer, only hesitating in fear of his reaction.

"Just like that?" Mark asks. "Not even a little?"

I shake my head. "Nope. Have you seen the news recently? God's not out there."

Mark pauses, gazing out the window. "So you don't think He's anywhere. Not even in music?"

I scoff. "Have you heard the stuff I listen to?" I gesture to the stereo. "That stuff's more devoid of God than Hell itself."

He sits back. "Wow."

"I s'pose you disagree?"

He nods. "To an extent."

I extend a glance to let him know I'm listening.

He mumbles, "Jeez, how do I explain this...?” He looks down at his hands before gazing out the front window. "I don't believe there's a bearded man up on a cloud controlling fate and bossing angels around; that idea was formed by scared humans who hadn't discovered science yet. I believe in God more as a theory, a nameless _Fate_ , y'know? A divinity that kind of lies in secret places. I call it the Universe sometimes, go outside and talk to it. I use it as kind of a comfort, a knowingness that there's at least a smidge of a plan for me, and everyone around me. That I got my sorry ass dragged here so that I could ride my bike with my dog to your house and end up in this car with you. For whatever reason. I believe in that _reason_. I believe in the _something_ out there that I can _feel_ but can't quite _touch_ , y'know? A _something_ that I feel when I look up at the stars and constellations. A _connection to something_ that's _right there_." He reaches out, then drops his hand and looks at me. Something earnest in his eyes makes me believe his words. "I don't know what to call it. But it's there. And it's _real_ , I just know it."

I look down at my lap, since I can at the stop light. It almost sounds like he's describing what I feel towards him. Maybe _he’s_ part of the Universe, and I'm just outside, watching in awe.

I smile faintly as the light turns green. I don't go. There's no one behind me.

I look at him, and his dark eyes are so surreal and rich in the dark. They _look_ like the Universe.

"I feel like I just had a spiritual awakening," I tell him.

He grins. "I'm glad. Another point for the Universe."

I laugh lightly and go on through the light.

He directs me through the city as we get deeper and deeper into it. There are more cars here. More vampires and nocturnal creatures.

"Are you sure God's not in music?" he asks. "There are more genres than metal and smelly pop, you know."

I chuckle. "Smelly?"

He laughs back. "Yeah! That processed stuff that's all trying to sound like each other." He jumbles his hands together and crinkles up his nose. "Smelly."

I laugh. "Then tell me, what music _does_ have God in it? And don't say jazz."

Mark lets out the breath he had taken. "No fair. You haven't ever seen live jazz."

"And live jazz has the Universe in it?"

He gazes at me, eyes sparkling. "A galaxy in every note."

A corner of my mouth lifts up. "Where else does that show up?"

"You tell me," he says. "Isn't there a record that ever made your heart swell up? A concert that left your nerves tingling?"

I take a breath and look out at the sky. "I dunno... When I was a kid, my big sister had this record--an actual record, like a vinyl--Thriller by Michael Jackson. Nothin' on there was new to me, I had heard all the songs before but, I dunno. It always felt like good luck when I listened to it."

He rolls that over in his head for a second. "Cheap shot," he decides on. "Everyone knows MJ was a divinity."

I laugh incredulously. "Then what else do you want me to say? That was the first thing that popped into my head!"

"I dunno..." He chuckles. "Honestly, I was kinda expecting you to say Fall Out Boy or Gerard Way's voice or some shit."

"I'm metal, not emo, you dipshit," I say through laughter, playfully shoving him.

"Then what?" he says. "Metallica never harboured God to you? Pierce the Veil's lead singer never brought a tear to your eye?"

"You call Pierce the Veil metal? Honey..." I tsk. "You haven't ever seen live metal."

He just grins at me. "You're avoiding the subject by criticising me. Is Thriller really the only thing you've heard galaxies in? There's gotta be more." At my silence, he says, "There's no need to be embarrassed. Just start listing things. Go."

"Now I'm nervous," I say. I take another moment to compose my thoughts. "Steve Perry? From Journey...? And, um, Jack White. And Rush, God, Rush could've been the Universe by themselves." He tells me to turn and I do. "...You know Muse?"

Mark nods. "Of course."

I nod. "Yeah. Them. They're like punk rock for the soul. And, yeah, okay, Patrick Stump from Fall Out Boy. I'm half convinced he's an angel already."

Mark nods. "I know what you mean. There's an artist that I think is strongly connected to the Universe. Might be a little light on the distortion for you, but..."

I scoff. "I'm not that stubborn of a metalhead. I listen to Journey for fuck's sake."

Still, he hesitates. "The Reverb Junkie?" he says. "Michelle Chamuel? She has a couple EPs and records under both names. Her voice, the music is just... a direct connection to the Universe, in my experience."

"Okay," I say. "Noted."

"Oh! Oh! Here it is," he says, holding his arm over my chest. "Park over there."

I furrow my eyebrows and do as he says. There are a couple cars parked in the small lot, and I scooch in between two.

I shut off the engine. "So what is this?" I look around. "A closed vegetarian restaurant? An abandoned pharmacy?"

"Where we’re going's a couple up the street," he says, unbuckling. "C'mon."

Mark leashes up a sleepy Chica and I follow him up the sidewalk. He leads me down a space between two buildings (an interior design place and a record shop) and to a set of stairs that lead into the basement of the one on the right (record shop).

As we approach, Mark nods at the guys hanging out in the backs of vans parked outside of the entrance. The guys nod back or raise a beer bottle.

I could hear the low end of the music from where we parked. _Metal_. Mark is leading me to a local underground metal show. My eyes light up and I don't care that he sees it.

I look to him. "So you _have_ been to a metal show before."

Mark shakes his head. "I just know where the good ones are." When he returns my gaze, his eyes are sparkling.

I glance down the narrow stairs. “Do I have to pay to get in?”

He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it, this is the back entrance. You can just step down and see the band from there, nobody’ll bother you about paying. Not as tough on your ears from there, either.”

“What about you two?” I ask with a glance towards Chica.

“We’ll be fine,” he says. “We’ll hang out up here. You go on.”

I take a cautious step down. “Okay...”

He nods and smiles at me reassuringly. “It’ll be fine. Have fun!”

I nod back and make my way down the steps. When I’m at the bottom, I see the room is half filled, the 'stage' a piece of floor underneath a rug. Everyone faces the band playing, screaming and thrashing. In the front, a space is left open for moshers, running and jumping and headbanging into each other. Silent listeners and gentle headbangers stand towards the back and middle, pushing the moshers back to the makeshift pit.

I smile. Everything here is so raw and surreal, nothing like the movies. The sharp scent of beer circles around the air and somebody's vaping Skittles flavour. Fairy lights line the corners of the room and hang around the stage in a purple glow that isn't quite fitting to the sorrows the screamer is confessing.

I watch in awe at the band and people making the dirtiest music out there. In this dim room, it doesn't feel like God, but it doesn't feel like the Devil or even the Nothing I’ve become so accustomed to. It feels like human, like real, like _metal_.

The band's set ends two long songs later, and I get the feeling they're not the last. I turn to climb the steps back to Mark, but he's already trotting down to me. We meet halfway.

"So?" he says.

"They were pretty good," I say. "The riffs were pretty good, and the drummer... Rad as all hell."

He nods. "Did it feel like galaxies? Home away from home?"

I shake my head, eyes wide. "Everything and nothing at the same time."

He smiles, nodding, then nudges his head towards the stage, where the band is putting away their equipment. "You wanna meet them?"

My eyebrows shoot up. "Really? We can do that?"

He laughs. "Yeah. They're just people." He tugs on the sleeve of my hoodie, down by my hand. "C'mon."

I let him drag me down the rest of the stairs and to the makeshift stage as the crowd is dissipating.

"Hey guys, great show," Mark says to them.

The vocalist and bassist look up at the sound of his voice. "Mark!" They stop fiddling with equipment and the other band members look up, smiling when they see him. They all come over and shake his hand or give him bro-hugs.

I curse Mark out, in surprise of him knowing the band. It gets lost in the chatter.

"Wow, I didn't think you'd ever make it to a show," the vocalist says. "The one night Tom doesn't come..." He shakes his head at Mark, chuckling.

He shrugs. "Didn't know I was coming until tonight." Mark glances over at me, unphased by my glare. "I brought someone I want you guys to meet." He places a hand between my shoulder blades, bringing me back to Earth. "This is my pal Seán."

I wave dumbly and smile without showing my teeth.

The ones in the back nod at me and the vocalist and bassist shake my hand.

"It's always nice to see fresh faces," the vocalist says. "But I gotta admit Mark's not exactly a regular."

Mark shrugs. "I might just become one if this guy right here's gonna be." He bumps his shoulder into mine, grinning. At this point, it's hard to be angry at him.

They laugh. The bassist asks, "Where's Tom again? He never misses shows here."

"At home sleepin' and studying like the lame-ass he is," Mark says, and the guys laugh. "He has a test in a couple days. Trying to catch up."

They nod in understanding.

"Hey," Mark says to me, "you're a drummer, right?"

"Um," I say, then nod my head. "Yeah."

The drummer from the band looks up and hold a fist up. "Right on!"

I laugh and watch him take apart his kit. I let myself daydream about having a set that's real like that one day.

"That's great," the vocalist says. "You in a band?"

"I fuckin' wish," I blurt, before I can help myself.

He and the bassist bark out laughs. "Well, I know some guys that're lookin' for a drummer. If you're any good."

"Oh, he is," Mark says before I can speak. He glances at me. "I've heard you at school, banging on that old set there. I bet you'd be amazing on a real set."

I smile at him, daydreaming. "I would be."

The vocalist grins at me. "Well in that case, they played earlier, maybe I can introduce you? See about you fillin' that spot."

"Oh, my God, that'd be amazing," I say.

He finishes packing up wires. "Don't thank me yet. You still gotta play for those guys. And they are _vicious_."

"I can handle them," I say with a confident grin.

He laughs. "Wish I'd been that cocky when I was your age." He throws some more stuff together, looking to the back entrance, where the rest of the band went. "Hey, you guys gonna stick around? We were all gonna sit by the vans and drink and smoke. You kids smoke?"

Mark and I look at each other.

"Um," I say.

"Do you?" Mark asks me.

"Um," I say.

"No pressure," the vocalist says. "Just come chill if you want. But by all means, go check out the other bands, chat up some people. Whatever, guys." And he walks off.

I look to Mark.

He shrugs. "What're you looking at me for?"

"You brought me here," I say. "I thought I'd let you lead the way."

He grins. "I brought you here for you. Not for me. You lead the way."

I nervously shove my hands in my pockets. "Well okay, then."

I glance around and think about going out back to smoke, about having a drink with those guys, with the possible band to join. Quickly, I remember I have to drive, so I swear off weed and beer for tonight, although under different circumstances, I probably would smoke. It keeps the music alive when the heart's too far gone.

Realising I haven't moved from my spot and probably won't, he says, "Well all that leading you're doing there is great, but I'm gonna get away before those crazy-dance-head-bang people come back."

I laugh. "Moshers?"

"That's the word I'm looking for," he says. We head to the stairs and stay at the bottom for a minute.

"So," I say, “how do you know that band? I mean, you all talked like childhood friends."

He smiles small. "My older brother knows them, he's buddies with the singer. I've met him a couple times at Tom's--my big brother's--house parties. I just... Tom talks about them all the time, and he marks down all the shows he wants to see on our calendar, so I knew they were gonna be here."

"That's great," I say. "Thank you."

"No need," Mark says as the guitarist for the next band introduces themselves to the crowd.

I nudge my head towards the exit and take a step up. He nods and follows. When we're up the stairs and outside, the music goes muffled and distant, detached. The grungy band members wave us over. They offer us beers when we're close.

"No, thanks, I'm driving," I say.

"One won't hurt," a different guy says, already high off his tits, I can tell.

I feel a twinge of annoyance, and it inclines into steady irritation when the vocalist from earlier offers a can to Mark. "You're not drivin'."

He shakes his head. "No, no, thank you."

The vocalist sits back, popping the beer open. "Goody two-shoes, just like your brother," he observes with a chuckle and swig.

Mark shrugs, unwilling to defend or deny.

I glance over the group of guys. How could God show up in such simple-minded assholes? Maybe jazz really is where the Universe invests.

We sit with the guys anyways, switching between chatting and declining offers of beer and things to smoke. I get into a good conversation with a guy about whether Thor or the Hulk would win in a fight (the Hulk is bulletproof and all-powerful, but Thor's a _god_. Literally). Mark sticks to small talking with the original band. Then everyone is too high/drunk to comprehend without being either yourself. Mark and I exchange a glance. He makes up an excuse about Chica and we're back in the car.

In the front seat, we heave relieved sighs. The time reads 3:53.

"Shit," I say, turning the key in the ignition. "What the hell are they gonna do at 4:20?"

He laughs, light and relieved. "Sacrifice themselves to Lord Snoop?"

I laugh, so loud and sudden that Chica jumps up from where she had just settled down.

When I'm calmed, I ask him, "Can you get us back to our town?"

He nods. "Yeah, 'course."

So he directs me out of the parking lot and to a street that goes on for a long time. Green and red lights for only us.

He sighs, sinking into his jacket. "You were right."

I tilt my head at him and ask, "About what?"

"All of it," he says, then glances at me with a small smile. "About metal being devoid of God."

I nod. "Yeah. If I know anything, it's metal."

He nods. "I just didn't think they were all such... meatheads."

I exhale. "I'm glad you said it," I say.

"And Tom," he goes on, "he just... He never shuts up about them! I thought that maybe... I dunno. Maybe they'd be... more."

I nod in understanding.

We go a couple minutes of directions and silence before Mark asks, "Do you know where you are now?"

Turning left, I nod with a glance to him.

"Where're we going?" he asks, pushing his glasses up a smidge.

"A place of belonging," I say. "But it’s gonna kinda suck if you've already been here."

He laughs. "I doubt I have. I spend more time _down_ downtown than in _this_ town."

"Why is that?" I ask.

He shrugs. "That’s where my brother usually drags me to. Guess I never thought enough of here to check it out."

I shrug. "Can't say I blame you."

He leans on the door and asks, "I take it you're around here a lot, then?"

"Eh." I signal and turn. "I kinda have no other choice. When I wanna go out, this is the only place that’s far enough away from home for me to feel independent-ish and close enough that my mum won’t be on my ass about it."

He hums a laugh. "Strict parents?"

I scrunch up my face. "Not really. Just a small town. And downtown's too far for their comfort without one of them with me."

Mark nods, eyes on me, listening, gentle.

“It might just be the ‘baby of the family’ thing but I dunno.” I shrug. “Like, I don’t remember them giving my older siblings this much shit about going out, but” I shrug “I guess I don’t mind. It means they care, right? That’s how I choose to see it.” I glance at him. “Not that it’s not annoyin’ as all hell.”

He nods in understanding, the corner of his mouth lifting.

"And you?" I ask. "Heard you mention Tom but not your parents." I add quickly, "Unless that's on purpose. You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

He smiles at me, at my stuttering and red face. "No, it's alright,” he says. “You deserve a little background on your badboy kidnapper."

I hold back a smile and say, "I really don't, if you don't want to tell me."

He shakes his head, then places his hand over mine, where I have it on the gearshift. I've stopped at a four-way so I could give him my attention.

"It's okay," he says, gently squeezing my hand. "I want to tell you." His hand is warm, and mine is (still) cold when he removes it.

I nod. "Well then I'm listening." I turn the corner and pull up to the coffee shop. I park and look at him, letting him know he has my full attention.

He keeps his eyes down. "God, I feel like such a cliché. 'Bad boy with dark past'. I hate myself." He takes a breath then continues under my sympathetic gaze. "So, I live with my older brother and his roommates on the other side of your neighbourhood--that’s why I could bike to it. He’s in college here, the one that’s y’know, over there?” He gestures and I nod. “Yeah. And, um, so, basically, one of the big reasons my brother decided on a college so far away was because our, uh, dad, uh, died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I mumble. I internally curse at myself for asking.

He waves me off. "It's okay. So, um... yeah. Tom goes off to college a year after my dad, um, dies. And my mom starts feeling suffocated. It's only me left though, and I'm not a bad kid. I actually straightened up a lot after Tom left. I’m- _I'm not a bad kid_." He takes a breath. "And yeah, so my mom feels betrayed by Tom or some shit because he left, and apparently a fifteen year old who practically raises himself is too much to handle, so she thought it would be a good idea to--" he clears his throat "--to ship me off to, well, here. To live with Tom. To-To _punish_ him or some shit." His voice is becoming more and more thick with tears he's unwilling to let spill. "Give him hell for leaving or whatever, and I'm the fucking bargain piece.” He sniffles, head down. “It's so shitty."

"That is fucking shitty as hell," I say without thinking.

He laughs, voice brittle. "Thanks. God, I'm such a cliché." He rubs his eyes under his glasses. "Sorry, I didn't mean to get so emotional."

"It's okay," I say, gently. I place a hand on his knee. "Honestly, you have every right to be. I'd be fuckin' pissed."

He glances at me, then back at his hands, nodding. "I was at first," he says. "Then I realised she's grieving just like me, y’know, maybe she’ll grieve for a while and fly me back. But then I was put in school, and I knew I wasn’t going to see her for a long time, I didn’t _want_ to--I don’t. And then the sadness kicked in, the self-pity. I thought, _but I don't fucking abandon my sons to fend for themselves_ , y'know? I just--I can’t see where she got it, I-I--" He makes a noise that could be a laugh or a scoff or a sob. "When is it okay to do that? _I'm a good kid._ "

I keep my eyes on my hand, squeeze his knee.

"I'm sorry," he says. "God, I'm sorry. I did _not_ mean to drop this on you." He rubs an eye.

"No," I say. "It's alright. It's good to let it out." I take my hand off his knee.

He nods, eyes on his hands. Chica stands and licks his ear.

"Yes, yes, I know," he coos, reaching back to pet her. "You've heard this all a million times."

I frown at the steering wheel, thinking of a sad, lonely Mark with only his dog and the sky to talk to.

"I'm sorry," I say, because it’s all I can think of.

"Not your fault," he says, nose stuffy. Chica retreats to the backseat as he sniffles again.

I think of all the romantic, grandiose, cheesy things I could say. The ‘ _I’m here for you_ ’s and ‘ _you don’t have to be alone anymore_ ’s. Instead, I say, “Do you want a tissue?”

He nods. “Thank you.”

I reach into the pocket in the door for tissues. "Shit," I say when I find nothing. I look at him. "I can go inside and get you some."

He smiles, sad. "No, that’s okay." He rubs his nose and looks up at the shop. "Is it even open yet?

I grin. "For me it is."

He laughs, eyes down.

“You wanna come with or stay in here?” I ask, unbuckling. “Because I was gonna get us some coffee, too.”

He shrugs and says, "In that case, okay. As long as you don't mind being seen with a mess like me."

"Aw, no" I say. "I think you mean _hot_ mess."

Cracking an appreciative smile at my weak effort, he says, "Thanks."

We get out of the car, and Chica's already up and excited, so we bring her with. I lead us to the building and circle around to the back. I knock on the back door as Chica finds a place to piss.

It's a minute before it opens, a minute of Mark sniffling into his jacket sleeve and Chica nudging my hand. I wonder if I should hug him, if that's an okay thing to do in this situation. I wouldn't know, and I'm afraid of asking. What if it's horrible even to ask? Is it rude to offer an act of affection? Is that even possible?

I think about our lives in comparison. How Mark’s is filled to the brim with big events and any and every emotion within a single day, whereas I’ve been sitting here hating my life because nothing ever happens. But I have both parents, and even if they aren’t vocal with their love, I’m taken care of. I have an older sister I would kill for and a person I can talk to. My life is downright boring, and Mark’s is anything but. I ask myself if I would really trade a bland, static life without much emotion or event for a life of adventure and heartbreak after heartbreak. I ask myself if happiness is worth its antonym.

The door opens after the minute turned into an hour. And she's there, brow furrowed, then an incredulous, surprised smile is in its place.

"Jack!" she says. "What the hell are you doing here?"

"Well, I was around," I say. "Can we come in? My friend needs a tissue."

"Um, yeah," she says. Then she sees Chica. "Wait, the dog can't come in through the kitchen. Hold on." She disappears behind the door before coming back with a slice of paper towel. She hands it to me.

I pass it to Mark, who trades me Chica's leash for it. He dries his eyes and clears his nose as she starts talking again.

"Don't you have school today?" she asks me. "No, I'm being rude, do you want coffee? Tea? Jesus, you're gettin' skinny. Is Mum even feedin' ya?"

I glance back at Mark, who has an eyebrow raised.

"Fuck, right, okay, start with the basics," she says to herself. She holds her hand out to Mark. "I'm May, Jack's older sister. Or do you call him Seán?"

"Um," Mark says as he shakes her hand. He looks at me. "I didn't know you have two names."

I shrug. I begin to explain that Jack's a nickname and May starts talking again, hands on her hips.

"American, huh?" She turns to me. "Is this the American boy you're always goin' on about? Mack?"

"It's-It's Mark," I sigh.

"So it is." She nods, looking between the two of us. She's the only one I've told about Mark and my pining, besides feeble attempts at telling North. May looks between us, and I can see her picturing us together, writing her best man speech for the wedding she's already planning. She's going to say something to him. _Shit_.

"Hey, um, can we take you up on that coffee offer now?" I ask.

She grins at me. "'Course!"

"Go bring Chica 'round front, I’ll unlock the door," I tell mark. He nods and starts walking.

I watch him go and when he's around the corner, I turn back to May. Her eyebrows are up high and her mouth is agape and grinning.

"Before you say anything," I say, "no, we are not together and no this is not a date." I step inside, into the kitchen of the coffee shop. Her coworker gives us a glance, but relaxes when she recognises me. "I don't think he's even bi, so don’t fucking mention a thing about the _crush_ thing, okay? Please? _Please_."

"Jesus, yes, okay," she says, but she's grinning like this is all a joke. "But you guys really are cute together."

I shoot a look at her that lessens the smile but doesn’t make the glint in her eyes leave. I pass the main counter and step into the dining area. I place my hand on the front door's handle, unlocking it. "Just go make coffee."

She holds her hands up and goes back to the kitchen.

I smile and open the door for Mark. "Hi. Sorry."

"What for?" he asks, stepping in.

I rub the back of my neck, letting the door fall closed. "My sister. She can be kind of... I dunno. Flighty."

"I thought she was endearing," he says.

I scoff and flip two chairs from their upside-down position on a table next to the window. I sit down and Mark sits across from me. Chica sticks her head in my lap.

"So you tell people about me, huh?" He smiles teasingly, lacing his fingers on the table.

I shrug. "You’re worth talkin' about."

He looks down, not expecting my answer to be so smooth. "That's kind of you to say."

I smile. I sit there and think, _he's so fucking cute right now it kind of hurts_. His eyes aren’t as puffy, but I still feel a harsh pang of guilt for making that happen. I wouldn’t know how to apologise and I don’t know if I can or should.

I sink in my seat and scratch Chica’s ears. Mine and Mark’s relationship seems almost unbalanced now. I feel like I know his life story and he doesn’t even know I have three other siblings. It’s heavy, and ignorable when forgotten, but obvious and ugly at the front of my mind. I hang my head in shame. Chica steps away from me and to her owner.

"So,” he begins softly, smooth and weary around the edges, “Jack or Seán?"

I furrow my eyebrows. "What?"

"Is it Jack or Seán?" He takes off his wire-rimmed glasses. "Which do I call you?" he asks. "And how the fuck is Jack a nickname?"

I shrug and laugh. "Well, um, my mum calls me Jack, for whatever reason, and Seán is Irish for John and Jack is a nickname for John." He hums in understanding, long and deep ("Oooohh"). "It doesn't matter to me, though. You pick."

He nods. After a moment, he says, "Jack fits your personality. Seán fits your eyes."

I lean back in my chair. "What does that mean?"

"Well, Jack is kind of... electric. Y’know, _pow,_ and that's you, your voice and metal music." I laugh and he grins at it. "But Seán... Seán is... gentler? I dunno. It's like your outside is all _wah! Jack!_ and your inside is _Seán_ , y'know, the guy that listens to your clichés."

I smile at him. "That's sweet. Thank you."

He grins at me and shrugs. "It's you," he says. "It's kinda nice to have both names, don't you think?" He puts his glasses back on.

I shrug. "Sorta."

Chica lays underneath the table, on top of our feet with a long groan. Mark giggles.

May enters with two mugs and a bowl on a tray. "Coffee for the couple!" she announces, bright smile on her face. "And a water for the puppy."

Chica's tail beats me in the leg as I shoot May a look. Mark just smiles, curious as to what inside joke this is. But it's not a joke. I'm not laughing (May is).

"Jesus, lighten up," she says, placing the mugs and creamer down. She pulls sugar packets from her apron and places the bowl down for Chica. "Is that it for you boys?"

Mark nods and I thank her. She disappears back into the kitchen, to prepare the shop for opening.

We mix up our coffee and drink in silence. Mark's hunched over his coffee, eyes half lidded. Blinking drowsily, he sips his drink. I watch his lips as he carefully brings the hot mug to his mouth. My eyes are sluggish and the dim light from the counter casts a cold, yellowish glow across us and the table, making his hair soften at the edges and sharpen in the highlights. He's still as delectable-looking as ever. Chica yawns and he catches it, then I hold one back. I think I can safely say we're both very tired at this point in the night (day?).

And that amount of exhaustion is most likely why I say, "You know I'm gay, right?"

It's an awful way to break the silence that only breeds more. He looks up at me, over his glasses that are fogged slightly from the steam of his coffee. He blinks, lips hovering over the rim of the mug. Blink, blink.

"No,” he says finally. "No, I didn't." Leaning back in his seat, he sets his mug down. "Thank you for trusting me enough to share that with me."

I'm suddenly shy, keeping my eyes on my coffee. "Not a big deal," I shrug, and it really isn’t, especially compared to what happened in the car. "Could you really not tell? I've been told I'm pretty flamboyant."

He laughs lightly. "No, not really. I've been told I'm pretty oblivious."

I smile down at the table, tight and nervous. _No fucking shit, Sherlock_. I set my coffee down to wring my hands. "So, do you, um.” _Do you like guys too? Curious? Do you wanna try with me?_

"Hm?" He sips his coffee.

I clear my throat. "Do you, uh, need more sugar?" I push a stack towards him.

He shakes his head and clears his throat. "No, I'm good."

I look down, bringing my hands to my lap. What was I even fucking expecting? For him to jump up and proclaim his undying homosexual affection for me? I resist the urge to groan and begin to wish to disappear.

"I, uh,” he says, “I think it's great." He gives me a nod and small smile. "That you have it figured out already. I mean, I don't--y'know what, I don't wanna" he exhales "too much of this night has already been spent on me and my issues. Nevermind."

"No," I say, hope flaring up in my chest even as I tell it to go away. "Go ahead. It's share time." I sip my coffee.

He smiles. "Thanks. I... I dunno. I don't have it figured out yet," he says. "I’m at this point where I don’t want to fuck _everything_ but don’t know what _not everything_ narrows down to, y'know?” He takes a gulp from his mug. “I guess I’m just inexperienced; I don’t have anyone that’s been able to narrow it down for me. It’s all theoretical and awful. People I think I like but I _just don’t know._ "

I look down, holding back a blush. _That doesn't mean you, Jack_. "Yeah, I just... I think for me, 'everything' narrowed down to 'boys' really quick." I add a laugh in attempt to seem casual.

He nods. "That's cool. I mean, I dunno. It's not really girls for me? I don't know if its guys either, though, it's like..." He laughs at his own thoughts. "The second I’m like ‘ _oh, yeah for sure, girls_ ’ a fine-lookin' boy walks by and I’m all fucked up again.” My heart actually jumps in my chest. “Sometimes, though, it's like my brain and my dick are two different operating systems stuck in the same piece of machinery, always arguing. My dick's like, 'hey, I wanna be in there!' and my brain says, 'no, you know what, you really don't'."

I start bubbling up with laughter. "Oh, my god.” I set my mug down. “Except mine was like a group effort of, 'hey, why don't you aim that towards boys'."

He nods with a laugh. “I just wish I could get mine to cooperate.” he says. “One usually wins one over. Y’know, the dick wants what the dick wants.”

I start laughing, and he's laughing, too, and we don't stop for a while.

When I'm calm enough to drink, I finish off my mug. I watch Mark slurp down the rest of his. I ask him if he wants another and he declines.

I nod, huffing out one more laugh. "So, um...," I say. I can't keep a smile off my face. "Do you have any more mystery spots?"

He raises an eyebrow. "I wouldn't know yet. Weren't we just over this?"

I laugh, surprised, and I can feel my neck heat up. "Jesus, not those kind of... Ah, fuck." I cover my face with my hands. He laughs at me and I say, "I meant, where's the next stop?"

He thinks about that for a minute. I can practically see him rolling ideas around in his head. "I don't know," he decides on. "Maybe we should just start driving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> feelsies for realsies guys
> 
> in all seriousness, thanks for reading!! I strongly encourage you to check out the bands/artists they mention in the beginning of the chapter. If already know some of them, great!! let me know, and let me know if you don't. tell me who sings like galaxies to you!! I'm always open to new music!
> 
> **also I dont know Jack's sister's name, so I just made it May. the beauty of an au!
> 
> Thanks again for reading!! Feedback is always appreciated ^__>^


	4. { [ chapter four: groove ] }

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is the last chapter!! thanks for all the love on this fic, i hope you enjoyed it! feedback is always, always, always welcome!

I get to-go coffees for the road. May makes me pay for them since the first ones were complementary. Mark fusses at me for paying and remind him of the pizza he bought. He digresses with an eye roll.

And then we're going. Driving, driving, further and further from town. Buildings become shorter and there's more greenery. We go fifteen minutes of quiet metal filling the silence before Mark speaks.

"No offence, but, do you have any other CDs?" he asks. "I'm just not feeling same-thrasher-record-that’s-been-on-since-eleven."

I laugh quietly. "Yeah, go ahead. There are disc holders between the seats and up here.” I motion to the visors. “And I've got a container of cassettes in the back I think? And there should be some CD cases scattered in your floorboard."

"Wow," he says. "I'm going straight for the tapes." He turns and squeezes between the front seats to search the backseat. "Oh, hi Chica," he coos. "'Scuuuse me. No, no, go back to sleep, shhhhhh." He returns to his seat with a medium-ish clear container. "Found 'em."

I smile at him. "Have fun. That box is a mess."

He pops it open, grinning. "The box and I are messes filled with music. I've found my twin."

I laugh. "Some of those are my parents’,” I say. “Just in case you were wondering where the Earth, Wind and Fire came from."

He glances at me. "What, you don't listen to them?” he asks. “Never jammed to September? Never visited Boogie Wonderland?"

"They did Boogie Wonderland?" I ask.

"Hell fuckin' yeah, they did," he says. He moves his shoulders to the beat of the song in his head. "They're the shit, man."

I laugh at him. "Please tell me you're not gonna whip out the disco jams. Please."

He chuckles mischievously.

"For Christ's sake," I mumble.

"Nah, I wouldn't do that to your poor tainted-with-metal ears," he says, grinning. He hums Boogie Wonderland as he skims through the rest of the tapes. "There's a lot of punk in here... Whoa, Hall and Oates? Shit... Wait. Yes. This."

"Are you gonna play something weird?" I ask warily. "Is it a joke?

He rewinds the tape. "Not right now it isn't."

I sigh at him, embarrassed at the range of music in the box. And then Donna Summer is blasting.

He knows every word, turning it up to cover his voice. I laugh out of surprise and bop my head along until the song is over.

After the fade out, he pops the tape out and puts it back in its case.

"What, no more?" I ask.

"Only that one song," he says. "It is my jam and I am the peanut butter and when that song and I collide we create the ultimate PB 'n' J."

I laugh, hard and loud. "I was wondering where you were going with that. So poetic."

He just nods proudly, placing the tape back in the box. A minute later, he's pulling another tape out of its case.

"Found the one?" I ask, trying to sneak a glance over.

He nods, sliding it into the player. "I think this record suits tonight." He makes sure it's rewinded before hitting play.

I wide grin spreads across my face. He chose The Stranger by Billy Joel.

He smiles back at me, proud of his choice. I hum along to Moving Out (Anthony’s Song).

In a break, he asks, "Is this one yours or your parents'?"

I smile, sharing a look with him. "All mine." The track hits the chorus again and my smile stays in place. "How did we forget Billy Joel in our Universe talk?"

Mark looks thoughtfully across the road and still-dark sky. "Maybe because it's a given. Like Michael Jackson or Stevie Wonder. I think Billy Joel is one of, like, the archangels that do the bidding but don't get the credit, y'know? I dunno. Like you know he's there, he's always there, but we take him for granted."

I nod. "Totally taken for granted. I'm tellin' ya, it's like each song has its own soul."

He nods. " _Yes_. That's it. His music is actually _life_ , life you can listen to."

I nod, and the music fills me up with energy in a way that coffee never can.

 

 

**[ [ • ] ]**

 

 

Side A of the tape ends with a hearty _click_ and silence takes its place.

I look over at Mark with only my eyes after a second. "I thought you were supposed to be DJing," I say.

He inhales sharply, lifting his head from where it was hanging. “Whuh?”

"Don't tell me you're fallin' asleep on me," I say. "That's no fair; I have to drive."

"No, no," he says, voice deep and groggy. "I was just... checking my eyelids for cracks."

I make a noise somewhere between a scoff and a laugh. "Yeah, sure. Drink your coffee and flip the tape."

He grumbles and grabs the paper to-go cup, then takes a sip. He grimaces and pulls it away from him. "Ewgh, it's cold."

"That's what ya get for sleepin’ on me," I say. "Now flip the tape over."

He obliges, putting the coffee back down. Vienna fills the air.

Mark stretches and asks, "Where are we?"

"Nowhere, Ireland," I say. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere, Ireland," Mark says with a quirk of his mouth.

I glance at him. "Seriously, Mark."

He sighs. "I dunno." He looks at me. "I thought you knew."

I shake my head. "You said to just drive. So I am." I take a glance at him to meet his gentle, tired gaze. "When are we stopping?"

He shrugs. "Any time you want."

I keep the speed steady as I think. The sky is still deep and dark, stars brighter in these less populated and unpolluted areas. I think about the sun, waiting just beneath the horizon, like Billy Joel sings of how Vienna waits for you.

"Let's park somewhere and watch the sun rise," Mark says.

I smile. "You read my mind."

I pull off on a dirt road somewhere, then turn into the grass after a while of trees. When the car is parked, I shut of the engine, but let the battery run to play the cassette. I look out at the sky and the stars. I never really saw them twinkle, and tonight they're strong and bright.

We roll the windows down, letting the last tracks pour out into the wild. I get that image in my head again about tree branches climbing into my bedroom window, unseen life being the soil it grew from, but this time it’s reversed, life pouring out of the car windows. Music creating nourishment for the quiet, forgotten nature around us.

I look over at Mark slowly, shyly, not wanting him to know that I’m looking. He watches the night with a wonderment I could never possess. His knee bobs to the beat.

The feeling, the pull to him is stronger for a second. It never really stops, and has always been there, taking up my headspace and tugging from the area beneath my lungs. Like he has his own gravity, a rope tied around my diaphragm.

He picks up my gaze but I don't look away. I’m not afraid of his eyes like I have been, my heart picking up all the same. The way he looks at me, how close he is, how amazing and ridiculous everything has been, it makes me want to just... romanticise the shit out of him. Stroke his hair, remove his glasses to compliment his eyes, fucking giggle at him and nuzzle my face in his chest when I know I'm blushing.

I'm so hopeless (or more accurately: stupidly hopeful).

I feel ridiculous. Pining for him like this, just wanting the cheesy stuff, wanting to just hold hands and be okay with just that. To love the _just_. Mark's the only person that can make my heart race and swell at the same time. He's the only crush I couldn't fap away, the only boy that looks at me the way I look at him. The only fantasy that didn't make me blush beneath the belt line (at least, not exclusively).

Realising how silly I am, how we haven't even _spoken_ of what the look we're sharing is, I shift in my seat. Courage and worry start welling up in my chest and I take a breath.

Chica burps between us.

Mark laughs boisterously, breaking the shared gaze with his eyelids as he closes them, holding his belly in his fit.

I laugh with him, letting that ease and seal up the moment. Ziploc fresh.

Our laughter dies down and I realise the tape is on its last track. That big, swelling feeling isn’t between us anymore, and that twinkle isn’t directed at me. I sigh at the steering wheel.

Mark coos his dog back to resting in the backseat. He sits back in his seat and listens to the end of the song before he opens his door. Chica's eyes follow him, but she doesn't stand.

He replies to my confused expression with, "Gonna get a better look at the stars." I nod as he exits the car and leans against the closed door.

I eject the tape. Dragging the plastic tote of cassette tapes from the floorboard into my lap, I toss The Stranger in with the rest. I flip through and consider my options.

There’s plenty of disco and punk, way too upbeat and distracting, I decide. I find an old mixtape that I strongly consider playing, labelled ‘ _from me with loathe xx_ ’ in faded ink and handwriting I don’t recognise. I smile at the thought of my dad receiving/making a mixtape. With a grip on Hatful of Hollow by The Smiths, I look back at the Journey tapes. I sigh and drop the cassette back in with the others.

I grumble through the disco indecisively then ransack the miscellaneous. “Fuck it,” I say, then pull out a Marvin Gaye tape. That’s the Way Love Is gets pushed into the player and the first song melts out of the speakers with each bass note.

 

After a moment, Mark pushes off from the car and ducks to look at me through the window. A slow grin takes form on his cheeks as the vocals start, and the look he gives me is of bliss and welcome surprise.

I smile back at him, then open the door and step out. We stand on either side of the hood, kind of smiling at each other. It’s all I know to do. He begins to move to the beat, to _groove_ , for lack of better word. All shoulder and hip in fluid harmony with the music. I watch him do that for a bit, nodding my head along awkwardly, trying not to focus on his hips.

“I can’t believe you chose this,” he says, still grooving. His body moves in small waves, becoming the embodiment of the song. Closing his eyes, he soaks up the end of the chorus. “Marvin Gaye, right?” He opens an eye.

I rub the back of my neck. “Uh, yeah,” I say. “I thought it might, uh, set the mood? I dunno.” I shrug. “I admittedly haven’t listened to much of his music.”

He shrugs, slow and in time with the beat. His bomber jacket seems a little bit bigger on him now, unzipped and long, distressed leather shining softly in the moonlight. “Me neither, really,” he says. “But I do know that if you’re trying to set the mood with Marvin Gaye,” he glances over at me, “you’d better have brought condoms.” He snaps to the beat casually.

I feel my ears heat up and I start sputtering. “I-I didn’t mean it like _that_ ,” I say, and it sounds like I’m admitting the opposite.

The track reaches a grand final chorus, full and smooth. It looks like he’s wrapped himself up in it. “I don’t mind it. Seduction R ‘n’ B is the best.” He closes his eyes again.

I chuckle. “’Seduction R ’n’ B’? Is that even a thing?”

“Hell yeah it’s a thing,” he says, then climbs onto the hood of the car. The next track begins, with less groove and more soul. “That’s what this is. I think Marvin Gaye’s one of the only people to have ever perfected it.” He pauses to listen. The vocals hit a high then trickle back down. “ _Mm_. Hear that? Pure seduction. Delectable.” He shifts around on the hood. “This is what they had before Arctic Monkeys. Seduction R ‘n’ B is why the Earth is overpopulated.” He stretches his legs across the hood and leans back against the windshield.

I laugh, embarrassed still. How did I manage to accidentally pick a record meant for sex? It’s like the Universe is pushing us together but he doesn’t have a clue yet. I want to slam my head in the car door.

Instead, I sigh and look up. It’s a rare cloudless night for Ireland, wind cool but not biting. Marvin Gaye’s voice still drifts through the air, shooing the clouds away and bringing the sky closer. I allow myself to drink up the music for a second more before I look at Mark.

Eyes already on me, he offers a small, gentle smile. He waves me over to lie next to him. I oblige, crawling onto the hood. It buckles slightly under my weight.

I sit on my knees, looking at him where he’s lounging against the windshield. He grins at me, then shrugs off his jacket to lay over the glass.

“No, you’re gonna get cold,” I say.

He shakes his head, then pats the spot next to him. “Not if you c’mere.”

I relent and lay next to him, still careful of my distance, of our skin brushing. There’s a lull, small and fleeting, that the soft song fills.

Then, Mark speaks, his voice smooth and sonorous. "Do you see that bright star right there?" He points to the sky almost directly in front of us.

"Which one?" I ask with a laugh. "There are so many."

"The brightest one," he says, unphased. "Over to the right and down a bit."

I squint and search until I think I've found it. "Okay...?"

"There are two other bright ones, one farther out to the left and one above that first one. Together they make a triangle."

It only takes me a couple seconds to find them. "Okay... what about this triangle is special?"

"It's the Summer Triangle," he says. "The brightest one, on the bottom right, is Vega. The one up at the top is Deneb, and the loner to the left is Altair." I laugh and he grins at me. "The Summer Triangle is kind of a landmark to find other constellations, even though they're dimmer this far into autumn." He shrugs a little closer to me on the hood, our shoulders touching. "Vega is at the centre of the constellation Lyra. It looks like a tiny kite with a short string. Altair is part of the constellation Aquila the Eagle. It looks kinda like a chicken foot? And Deneb, the east one" he points upward "forms the tail of Cygnus the Swan." He drops his arm and it lays on top of mine. "Do you see them all?"

I take a moment to scan the sky. I laugh, "Not really. Only the kite one, I think."

He nods. "That's okay. The others are hard to find." He adjusts the glasses on his nose.

"Wait, wait, I think I found the chicken foot," I say, grinning.

He laughs. "Great." He shifts down and looks almost directly above us. "Okay, look far to the left of Altair and up a bit. There's a brighter-ish star there. Not directly left, that might be Alpheratz. Higher than that one. And not too far left, either. That super bright one is probably Betelgeuse. Too high and too bright might be Capella."

I crane my neck and squint. "Fuckin'..." The sky looks almost closer here, but the stars seem farther away. I scoot an inch closer to Mark. "Is it-Is it that one?" I ask, pointing. "Way up there?"

"Yeah!" he says. " _That_ is not actually a star.” He takes a quick glance at me. “It's the Andromeda galaxy, the closest one to the Milky Way."

I nod silently. "And by close you mean a galaxy far, far away, right?"

He laughs. "Only about two and a half million lightyears.” He looks over at me with a cheeky smile.

I nudge him and let out a laugh. “ _’Only’_.”

And he goes on, about space and stars the Universe, all the things he’s made of. He points out constellations to me, and talks about space until his voice goes raw with overuse. Until side A of the tape ends. I start to fall in love with his voice, the way it's warm and intoxicating. I let him ramble so I can wrap myself up in it.

Then everything goes silent. Good silent. Open silent. Where we're too tired to care, too lazy to flip the tape over, and have been through so much tonight that anything else doesn’t matter. The sky is brightening, the trees are breathing and sighing in sync with us. I close my eyes, breathing it in. I let it out and it turns to stardust.

Gently, I speak, and it all drops back to reality like the balloons that had carried me up solidified into rocks.

I ask, "Why'd you bring me with you tonight?” My head lolls towards him and my eyes reluctantly open. “Why me, of all people? Why take me everywhere that's nicest?"

He lets that settle, all of it dust and doubt and pollution. "To woo you, I guess."

I furrow my eyebrows at him, then our gaze locks. "But why me?" I ask.

"Because, you're... Brave. And smart. And so, so hilarious and sweet and-and just..." He sighs, unable to find words. "Because you're worth wooing. And no star has more energy than you, no constellation is better put together than your heart, your mind, your elaborate jokes. No one deserves wooing more than you. And there's no one better for the job than me."

I ask, with my hopes too high, “Why?”

“Because you don’t belong here and neither do I,” he says. “Because you’re the kind of person who doesn’t belong to a place or idea, but a _feeling_. You swear and you laugh and you live. And I wanted to call dibs on the place of the friend you call when you want to drive a getaway-from-the-monotony car.” He glances at me.

I crack a smile. “I don’t think you realise,” I say, “that you have that spot already filled.”

He looks at me and lets a good moment of silence build before he laughs. “Really?”

I nod. “You’re… _you_. You’re Mark. Charming and mysterious with the Universe in your eyes, magic through the strands of your hair. I loved you before I knew you.”

The air really goes silent now. This is the point where I think he gets it. His whole body goes _‘oh’_ , gaze unfocused from my eyes and downcast.

Then he sits up from his recline on the windshield. He’s slouching where he sits, and I can see him breathing. Mark turns back and looks at me.

He exhales, brief and full. “I feel like I’ve led you on," he says, and my heart drops hard. "But. I dunno. I don’t know if I have.”

I shake my head. "What?"

“ _I don’t know,_ ” he says into his hands. “I just--I don’t know if that’s how I feel about you.” His eyes are downcast and demeanor stiff. My heart kicks into gear from where it sits on the floor, the bottom of my chest cavity. “I’d seen you in school and just by looking at you, I could tell you’re someone I want to be with. Just, not what kind of _with_. So I pickpocketed your tag,--because, whatever, I started pickpocketing when I was shipped here--and tonight Chica dug it up and nudged it over to me and sat there and looked at me like, _‘You took this for a reason.’_ ” He shakes his fists. “And when I showed up at your house, tapping on your window, I felt like the epitome of clichés. If Chica hadn’t’ve stopped to piss, I would’ve left. But then...” he shakes his head “… _but then, but then, but then_... there you were, in all of your sleepy glory, your Irish crème skin on display. Not a single cliché in you. But I _wanted_ the cliché, the _you had me at ‘hello’_ bullshit. Because it’s you. And I’m a cliché, a lonely fucking cliché that needs my other half. Someone to have me at ‘hello’. And-And... that’s you. Or at least... I want it to be.”

I blink at my hands. I blink at Mark. “So, you’re saying...” I close my eyes. “I... complete you?” I open an eye.

He glares at the fading stars and nods. “You complete my cliché. And it’s so fucking--.” He covers his face with his hands. “I hate clichés. But not when the cliché adds up to you.”

At this moment, my brain can’t deliver words to my mouth or sounds to my throat. I look at him. His eyes tremble when our gaze meets. Half-formed questions get stuck on my tongue.

He looks so lost and helpless, and I have nothing to offer to that. I lean into his jacket that’s splayed across the windshield.

He sighs a groan, frustrated and confused. “And now it fucking feels like the part in my cliché when one of us--” he exhales “--when I bite the bullet and kiss you.” He looks over at me.

My heart is one big beat right now, so fast they meld together. I glance at his lips. He sees it.

I say his name but trail off. He looks up, glaring, appearing to have a mental argument with the faded stars. The sky is starting to glow with the promise of morning. The silence that shares hood space with us is pregnant, heavy with things almost said.

I lean further into the faux sheepskin lining of the jacket, the combined scent of cologne and leather now cold instead of the warm it was minutes ago. I wonder how he’s not freezing, because I’m getting chills even through my blushing.

Then he looks at me, determined. An energy swells between us, and that pull towards him is all-consuming then. He glances at my mouth.

“Can this be the part in the cliché where I bite the bullet?” he asks, voice low and worn and sexy.

I imitate the tone. “I hope that’s not the only thing you’ll be doin’ with your mouth,” I say.

He grins, rolling onto his side to face me. “Do you have to be such a clever little shit all the time?” He leans in closer and I can practically feel him grin.

I shrug. “It’s part of my cliché.”

He laughs, and I lean up. I can feel his warmth, his energy on my skin. We’re close, and he leans over me a little bit. Our noses touch and I hold my breath. The sky is going purple as the Sun eases drowsily over the horizon, and its glow is the last thing I see before I close my eyes.

It’s just a timid peck at first, a test of the waters. But it’s all my thrill-seeking heart needs to dive in.

He plays coy, just like he always has, making me slow my pace from my rush in. I rest my hand on his neck and he reaches for my hip. He pulls away to take off his glasses and tosses them to the side, or into the grass, or somewhere (all I’m seeing is his lips).

I pull him back into the kiss, then another and another.  _More, more, more._ Mark breaks away to smile at me. "Eager, are we?"

I push him against the windshield because _damn him_ , I’ve waited long enough. I pin him there with an arm supporting me, lips on lips, my chest on his. A lazy, smothered laugh hums in his chest. His hand trails down my back and rests where my hoodie ends.

I damn all technology when my phone starts buzzing in my pocket. I pull away from him reluctantly and wince as I roll away, the bruise on my side keeping its promise of being a bitch. I get my phone out of my pocket and turn off the alarm.

“’wake up u asshat’,” he reads the title of the alarm. He grins at me. “Classy.”

I laugh once. “Thanks.” I put my phone back in my pocket, then turn again to Mark. He’s still grinning at me. "What?" I ask.

"Nothing, nothing...," he says. "You're just--" He exhales. He glances down then looks back at me again. The same small grin graces his face.

For a second, I wonder if he's going to kiss me again. Scratch that, I _hope_ he does. But he sits there with the same glint in his eyes, looking at me. The light makes everything but him look cold.

He rolls and leans into me, sharing his warmth. He kisses me, cold coffee and talked-for-too-long, cliché and magic. When he pulls away, our noses still touch. My eyes are still closed.

“You’re that,” he says, then sits up and pulls me with him.

Taking the jacket from the windshield, he drapes it over our shoulders. He turns, leaning on the windshield and roof of the car, facing the trunk. Facing where the Sun will rise.

I mimic his action, but admire him instead of the sunrise.

Mark watches the sky, eyes the colour of caramelised sugar. The Sun is just beyond the horizon. Around where it hides is pale yellow and cold blue. The light reflects off the forming clouds, nearly blinding when looked at directly.

"Good morning," he says out to the sky. "It's a new day.”


End file.
